


Bouts of Horrible Sanity

by feardubh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Slender Man Mythos, Slenderman Mythos
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Detectives, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Mystery, Platonic Relationships, Psychological Horror, Sherlock - Freeform, Slenderman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feardubh/pseuds/feardubh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is phoned by an old colleague in Germany about a sinister string of disappearances and he in turn asks Sherlock to help with a series of missing children. He and John take a train to Gernsbach and set up in one of the town’s hotels and begin meeting with various police officials and family members as they ask about the victims.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Familiar Call

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is something I've been working on for and with a friend of mine, and she'll be creating cover art for it soon.

The forest was quiet at night, a frost painted wonderland of high interest to children like her. She was eight and small for her age, but pampered enough to know the world as a safe place. Vreni's parent's were wealthy enough and their property gave her the freedom to explore acres of raw, natural land that remained untouched by the small towns springing up around the forest.

Vreni was not allowed out at night, but on this particular evening her parents were away on a business trip and she was left in the care of an elderly nanny who quite enjoyed a bit of wine after bedtime. Her nanny had gotten her ready to sleep, taken the harsh pins from her hair and bathed her, and lay dozing in an armchair with a ruby glass drooping dangerously in her slack hands. When she was sure she could move unnoticed Vreni had slipped out of her soft lacy nightclothes and donned the satin trimmed dress she's been wearing that day. A clever child, she waited until she was at the back door before slipping into her shoes and then quietly sneaked into the night.

When she reached the edge of the field her ostentatious house overlooked, Vreni clicked on the torch she'd carried from the porch step and shined the beam along the line of imposing trees. Visiting the forest at night was not something she did regularly, but tonight was not the first time she's braved the dark curiously, so after only a moment's hesitation the child walked among the tall trunks. Her shoes made soft padding sounds over the thick roots and spongy mosses and faded into the other quiet noises drifting through the oozing curls of fog; the bubbling of a miniscule stream several dozen metres to her right, a quiet rustling of some small foraging creature somewhere in front, the gentle cooing of an owl. Vreni loved owls. They remind her of a friend she had, a pudgy child with short hair that stuck up oddly and round spectacles.

As she made her way deeper into the forest, she watched the blue-white moon's thin beams slowly fade into the fog as it became denser, and soon her torch's more comforting yellow light couldn't reach more than a few feet in front of her. A cold breeze stirred the fog, sending swirling waves of white to surround her. Her torch flickered slightly and she frowned, shaking it as she had seen her father do with a failing beam, but the flickering continued. Vreni was a clever child; she knew about batteries and was not frightened. But she recalled replacing the power supply in her torch only a week ago, and it made little sense to her that it should be going dim.

Verni continued into the forest and the flickering increased. No matter, she knew this area of the forest well enough to navigate by the clouded light of the moon- but no, something was off. Her feet stilled as she looked around and a small tendril of fear curled up from her belly. The outlines of the trees, bending through the fog, were familiar. The noises of the water were gone, as they should be. The moon glowed. Yet still an uncanny tension drifted into the forest like the mistthat surrounded her, enveloping Vreni with a sense of terrible, terrible wrongness.

Where were the birds, the deer, the small fearful ground creatures? There should be owls and mice and cats here, insects and other night wanderers, but a ghostly silence hung in the forest. It was unnatural. There was only a single noise; the thudding, like low, booming footsteps echoing through the trees, of her heart.

Suddenly her torch gave one mighty jolt of light and then died, plunging her into a darkness and she let out a soft, shocked gasp. As her eyes slowly adjusted Vreni's arms prickled with fear. She didn't fear the dark, not usually. What was out there that could hurt her? Nothing her father's antique collection of pistols couldn't protect her from. Regardless, a childish anxiety was rising in her and she backed up slowly until the rough bark of a tree pressed into her back.

The thudding continued at a slow pace, and she leaned around her tree to squint into the direction of her house. It was only a kilometer or so; how fast could she run back to safety?

Far in the distance behind her, a rustling started. She ran.

_Probably only a deer like the one Daddy hunted, but I don't wanna see._

Vreni didn't get very far before her poor human eyesight failed her and she tripped over a protrusion of gnarled wood. Mommy would be upset about the dirt smearing her dress, so she would have to hide it under her bed with the shoes she had caked with mud and set to dry. As Vreni pulled herself up again, her palms stung with scrapes and her heart raced.

The low thuds echoes slowly. _Not to her beats._

Now she was terrified, fleeing like a startled doe in the direction of safety. The sharp fingers of reaching trees caught at her arms, her face, her dress a she ran, but instinct ignored the stinging and she continued. Nausea grew in her stomach and Vreni slowed, leaning against a tree as she panted and caught her breath. The dead torch was heavy in her thin arms but she clicked it hopelessly and stared into the dark, peering around all sides. It was darker behind her, and her quick imagination put even darker shapes moving in the fog. The rustling in the heart of the forest grew closer and stilled.

The last sound of the forest stopped.

Behind her, from the blackness of night came a deeper black, a looming figure of malice stalking to stand at her back.

The first true scream of terror is one of the loudest and most powerful sounds of a young child's life. It echos and rips from small lungs and marks the beginning of the terrible knowledge that the world is not a soft, pastel place of padding and comfort.

Vreni was odd to have uttered her first as old as eight.

* * *

"It could be dangerous, and it might take some time. Well, for us it would. I'm sure it'll be boringly easy for you. Hell, you'll probably have worked it out before you hit the boarder."

The dark detective grinned and pulled his mobile from where it had been pressed between his thin shoulder and left ear. He pushed a button and the quiet white noise of the tiny speakers buzzed into the flat. His fingers fluttered along the keys as he made a search in the web browser, and then a entered a second string of keywards. He smiled again.

"I'm sure it will be quite entertaining. I do love a good serial murder."

"Well we're not sure if it's a serial murderer just yet. We just have the six victims." the detective inspector replied, his voice tinny as the speakers strained.

"Six disappearances, all young children, all in the same area over the span of six months. Of course it's a serial murderer. I know my murderers, Lestrade," the detective said scornfully. He knew his job and he was good at it. The best. Not one to be argued with.

"Fine, how soon can you get there?" Lestrade asked. "I promised him I'd try to get you there quickly."

He returned to the mobile's screen and thumbed down a page to inspect a chart of dates and destinations.

"A day or so if I leave this afternoon," he answered, smoothing the front of his greatcoat with one pale hand.

"Good. Will John be coming with you?"

The detective smirked again. "Of course." The two were hardly separate when they worked on cases; they'd been partners long enough to begin operating as a single entity.

"Good," Lestrade repeated.

_Click._

Sherlock allowed himself a small moment of stillness before he let out an ecstatic laugh. And he'd thought the week would be boring! He sent a single message on his phone before spinning around the living room excitedly and dashing to his own. A serial murderer!

_John, we've got a good one. How much German do you know? SH_


	2. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock depart for Germany.

"Well, are you coming or not?" Sherlock asked as he dumped an armload of clothing next to an open suitcase on his rumpled bed. There was a gleam in his strange eyes, one that John had learned to recognize as an incredibly energetic excitement. The detective refolded his clothes with quick, dexterous fingers and packed them firmly into the case as he spoke at lightning speed. John listened more to the rise and fall of his voice more than the words themselves; Sherlock knew he probably wasn't paying attention as he leaned against the door frame to his bedroom and watched with crossed arms and a bemused expression the detective's packing progress.

John sighed. "If I don't, you'll undoubtedly end up getting yourself into trouble." He smiled. "I'd rather be able to keep an eye on you."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock chuckled. "And I'd be lost without my blogger.

"I suppose if that's all, I aught to get started packing," He turned and left the room, his off-rhythm footsteps echoing through the hall. The detective's sonorous laugh followed him.

John pulled a scuffed suitcase from the back of his closet and set it on his bed before he began removing his own already neatly folded clothing and carefully packing it away. He wasn't sure how long the trip would last; with his partner's intellect and all but obsessive determination some seemingly difficult cases here in London would only last a few days, sometimes hours, while others spanned weeks. He packed enough for perhaps ten days and hoped that if they stayed in Germany longer he would have the chance to do laundry. A trip to the bathroom and his soaps and toothbrush were packed and from there he tucked away a few more personal items, money, and a stiff paperback. John was efficient and he filled the bag with the air of a man well traveled; soon he was zipping it shut and wheeling it to the top of the stairs.

Sherlock joined him in the living room a quarter of an hour later, excitement still clear on his face.

"We'll have to exchange our money in the train station," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Germany is on the Euro currency," the detective said. "The exchange rate is one point one six at the moment, I believe." He held out a wad of folded banknotes.

"No no, I have money," John waved a dismissive hand and Sherlock turned to stare at him piercingly. "What?"

"Nothing. We have a train to catch."

The doctor caught his partner's arm as he started down the stairs. "Now hang on, what about Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock scoffed. "She'll be fine. She knows we'll be safe." John frowned at him and he turned with an exasperated sigh and a dramatic sweep of his arms. "Oh, _fine._ Call her when we get to the station if you must. Mrs Hudson really doesn't mind what we do. Landlady, remember? She's not our mother."

John tugged his case down and met the detective on the landing. Sherlock pulled open the door and they stepped out onto the street together.

Baker Street bustled with the late afternoon activity of London's black cabs and big business men coming home from the nine-to-five grind. Pedestrians dotted the sidewalks and cars trundled down the blacktop as the pair wheeled their trunks to the curb and Sherlock raised on pale hand to hail a cab.

* * *

The trip to Germany was uneventful for both of them, even though trouble often found Sherlock. They departed from the station in London at seven thirty on a steamer under the channel to France, and from there they waited two hours for an overnight train to Stuttgart. John slept on the journey; Sherlock did not. H awoke when the train arrived in the station the next morning in their sleeper car to the _th-th-thump_ of the detective's fingers drumming against the plastic ledge along the window.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked as a baritone voice announced something over the loudspeaker.

Sherlock stared at passengers milling outside of the train with a bored, calculating expression. "No,"

John sighed and the voice came crackling again, this time speaking in French. After a moment he started over in thickly accented English. "Welcome to the Stuttgart station. We hope you enjoyed your night on the train and that you have finished with your customs forms; you will turn the forms in once you arrive on the platform. Be sure to collect your belongings as you enter the station as they will not be returned to you otherwise."

  
The detective stood sharply and pulled his trunk from the rack above his head before turning to John's and moving it to the floor by the doctor's feet.

"I could have gotten it," he said as he pulled himself to his feet, frowning.

"Yes, but you're slow."

With that, Sherlock turned and threw open the door to their compartment, much to the surprise of a passing woman outside who shrieked slightly and backed away after catching sight of the disdainful glare sent her way. John mumbled a quick apology and hurried after his partner.

As he caught up to the detective and tried to match his long strides, John tried to get more out of him about the case. "You weren't exactly forthcoming about this one, Sherlock," he called, stumbling as the tall man turned a sharp corner and entered the central hub of the station. "What's got you so excited? It's just kids,"

Sherlock spun around and placed his hands on John's shoulders as he turned. "Serial murders, John. _They're my favorite._ "

"Yes, but-"

He started off again and John struggled to keep up as the detective gestured about him. "Six children taken. Six. We've got an exciting one, feisty. People don't like their children getting taken."

John sighed. "We don't know if he's actually murdered them yet, and no one likes anyone getting taken."

"But they like their children getting taken much less. The murderer isn't afraid of that, which makes him interesting. Him, because that's statistically more likely. Going by the figures we're probably after a white male, mid- to late twenties. America holds a whopping seventy six percent of serial murderers, and Europe pulls second with seventeen percent. Twenty seven percent of those are in Germany."

"But these aren't statistics we're talking about, these are _people_. And I would imagine these are just figures from caught killers." John argued.

Sherlock cast a dark glance over his shoulder. "Obviously. But facts lead to figures, and we're going to end up with a caught killer, so it makes no difference."

They reached a wide room with a sigh fixed to the ceiling proclaiming it to be the customs area, and Sherlock fell silent. A stern faced man in the station's navy uniform took his immigration documents at a windowed desk and stamped a page in his maroon passport.

"Welcome to Germany," the man said John walked up to the glass. His white badge read Niklas Ulrch and John placed him to be in his late forties, perhaps five foot nine and a hundred and thirteen kilograms. Sherlock probably knew better, but it wasn't important.

John nodded as he received his own stamped passport and followed the detective to the station's exit.

"From here we'll go west; Gernsbach is a little over a hundred kilometers away from here, maybe an two hours by road. C'mon, let's catch a cab."

Sherlock hurried off again and John followed close behind. They reached a taxi kiosk and waited on the sidewalk in front of it until a man leaned out and called to them.

"Next taxi wont be here for another ten minutes," he said.

"Not a problem," Sherlock replied. "We can wait."

He nodded and moved out of sight.

His estimate was correct and a tan car pulled to the curb before a quarter of an hour was up. The man in the booth returned and said something to the driver, who responded cheerfully in the manner of a close friend. He was young and thing, with unusually deep lines around his eyes- he smiled often. His eyes flicked to where Sherlock, who waited with a tension that could almost be called defiant at the curb, before dropping to John who stood slightly behind him.

The detective pulled out his pocketbook and scrawled something across one clean sheet. The driver leaned over the passenger seat of the taxi to read it, then bobbed his head in agreement. "Ich kann dort zu fahren, aber es wird teuer sein."

Sherlock blinked once and muttered something before replying "Der preis ist nicht ein problem. Wie bald können wir go-haben sie genügend treibstoff?"

The driver nodded again and Sherlock tucked away his book as he grabbed his case and wheeled it to the idling car's trunk After they stowed their bags, John joined him in the backseat and the driver accelerated into the busy street.

* * *

"The first victim, Annett Green, was last seen in the park by her house. She was seven and went missing on August nineteenth. Next is Tobias Millian, the eldest child who was abducted on September sixth from his home in Gernsbach. October twenty third at ten PM a frantic Die Frau Klau phones the police saying her six year old son Dieter is missing from his room. November eleventh, Tru Herrscher, age five. December second, Große Katja, age seven. January sixteenth, Vreni Mädchen, age eight." Sherlock grinned at the files spread on his thighs. "Look at them John- isn't it exciting?"

"Yes, six missing children. Very exciting. I can't thing of anything more entertaining, Sherlock" John replied wryly as the detective's mouth quirked into another smirk.  


The driver, previously silent through the trip, looked up and caught his eye. "Sind sie zwei verheiratet?"  


Sherlock shook his head. "Wir arbeiten zusammen; ich bin ein beratungs-detektiv und er ist ein arzt. Wir sind mitbewohnern."  


"Ja."  


The man returned his attention to the road and John leaned over. "What did he say?"  


"He asked who we were, and I told him."  


"Oh." He pulled away and the detective straightened the papers in his lap. John stared idly out of the window at the buildings and pedestrians flashing by, as he had for the last hour and a half.  


"Sind sie hier für die arbeit der polizei? Was ist das verbrechen?" Their driver looked up from the street again.  


"Vermisste kinder." Sherlock said. Their taxi pulled in front of a tall brick building with a staked sign announcing the property to be home to the city's highest rated hotel, rooms available. As the car rumbled atthe curb, their driver called out a fare and he held out a wad of crisp notes.  


The man laughed as the detective unfolded his long limbs and climbed out onto the sidewalk, tucking the case folder under his arm and moving to the back to retrieve their trunks. "Seien sie vorsichtig! Sie könnten jagen Der Großmann," he called, grinning, before nosing the taxi back onto the street.  


The pair walked up the hotel's lavish entrance. John tugged his suitcase close behind him as Sherlock held one glass door for him with a patience glance. "What was that last bit?" He had a feeling that this trip would be worse than many of their cases- Sherlock already explained little to him when they worked together- and he had enough trouble keeping up when he understood one side of the conversation. Now that side was in German. He sighed and shook his head as they stepped up to the wide counter spanning the lobby's length.  


The detective waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, just a local legend. There's a myth that a monster haunts these forests, preying on children."  


Fitting. "Lovely. What do you think of it?"  


Sherlock frowned at him. "It's a tale for keeping children in line, nothing more."  


The receptionist smiled at them becomingly, flashing bleached teeth. Her fingernails, yellow undoubtedly from nicotine, drummed against the counter softly and there were soft bags under her made-up eyes. Her voice was surprisingly clear and only slightly accented. "My name is Konstanze. Can I help you?"  


"Yes. I'd like one master suite, rented until next week and with the intention of extending that date if necissary. If possible, the room should be on one of the lower levels-" He tilted his head towards John. "He's got a bad leg."  


She typed something into her computer, eyes darting across the screen. "Single bed?"  


John frowned. "No, two please."  


With an apologetic smile, Konstanze pressed another string of keys. "Sorry, I meant no offense. Your body language- you two seem rather close." She opened a drawer and pulled two white plastic cards from inside. "Room one thirty nine. Call the desk if you need anything; the extension is three-six-six."  


Sherlock accepted the cards and passed one to John, who murmured thanks before turning to the side door. They found their room quickly and once Sherlock decided it was to his satisfaction and began unpacking while John acquainted himself with the loo. When he returned he found the detective waiting by the door like an impatient dog ready to be walked.  


"Out, already? But we just got here, and-"  


Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Don't be like that John. It's not even noon. Where's your sense of adventure?" He flung the door open and strode into the hall, his greatcoat flapping behind him.  


"Adventure, boredom, obsession- all the same, really-" John grumbled.  


"John, are you _coming?_ "  


He hurried to the door, but his partner was already in the lobby and out of sight. "Yes, Sherlock. Wait up!"  



End file.
